


It Feels Like You're My Gravity

by hauteblood



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 22:27:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1242853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauteblood/pseuds/hauteblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He isn't afraid to kiss me."</p><p>That sounds like a fucking dare to Mickey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Feels Like You're My Gravity

**Author's Note:**

> So I haven't written any kind of fic for ages. My old OTP sadly fell apart and I've been uninspired. Then I found Shameless and Gallavich, and it's totally destroying my world and I'm so happy.
> 
> This is my take on Ian and Mickey's first kiss, because for me my sexual orientation is the look on Ian's face after Mickey finally bites the bullet and goes for it. GODDAMN IT. 
> 
> Let me know what yall think.

Mickey Milkovich isn’t afraid of anything.

Well, okay fine, he’s scared of his dad, but that doesn’t mean shit – _everyone_ is scared of his dad. It’s just common sense. Doesn’t count.

And yes, if he’s forced to admit it, he doesn’t like heights. On rooftops or wherever, it’s fine as long as he stays away from the edge. But the whole _looking down and seeing nothing but a big fucking drop_ thing: it makes him feel sick and lightheaded. Joey – that dick – once laughed at him and said it’s a good job he’s a short ass then. Bastard.

He’d probably hate flying too; not that he’s ever been on a plane, but the thought of hurtling through the air in a tin can about a million miles from the ground with no way of stopping it freaks him the fuck out. Even if he had the money he wouldn’t do it. There’s something unnatural about planes. Human beings shouldn’t be up in the air like that.

The reason he’s thinking about this is because he’s currently sprawled out on a rooftop in downtown Chicago under the bright autumn sun, watching Ian Gallagher doing some marine shit with the obstacle course he set up on the roof. The redhead’s got his heart well and truly set on the army; apparently, the thought of having his legs blown off in Bumfuck-istan doesn’t scare him. Mickey isn’t afraid of pain – not after 20 years of Terry for a father – but the army? Forget that. Gallagher must be either brave or stupid to want it so badly.

And he does want it. He’s running drills now, hopping through tyres and crawling under benches and it’s boring as fuck but Mickey knows from experience that if he stays here and ‘helps’ then he’s pretty much guaranteed a blowjob at the end of it. And all he has to do is shoot a gun every now and then. Sounds like a win to him.

Today’s no different. He’s sat up on the wall watching the younger boy; silently grateful that Gallagher bothers to put this much effort in because _goddamn_ does all this exercise pay off. Mickey’s seen him naked, after all. ROTC does have some benefits, even if they are all purely to do with the size of Gallagher’s biceps.

It’s also pretty relaxing, just stretched out up here and firing randomly into the air every now and then. He must be really fucking chilled out because at some point, he finds himself agreeing to tag along and help Gallagher rob some old guy’s house. Not just any old guy either. The same guy who had come perving into the store the other day and it turned out Gallagher was fucking him on the side. And then Mickey beat the shit out of him at that fag bar. But not because he was fucking Gallagher. Obviously. He doesn’t care about that.

“I dunno what you see in that geriatric viagroid.” Mickey sniffs, staring through the busted out windows of a nearby abandoned factory. Because he doesn’t. Seriously; what is Gallagher’s thing for old dudes? He’s young, he’s hot, he’s in good shape… he could have anyone, really, but he keeps going for these creepy call-me-daddy types.

Gallagher just shrugs like he didn’t expect Mickey to get it anyway.

“He buys me stuff. Orders me room service.”

Mickey snorts, still not sure how a couple of shirts and a steak dinner could make fucking that old cradle snatcher at all appealing.

And then Gallagher flicks his eyes up, squinting in the sunlight and says, real casual: “He isn’t afraid to kiss me.”

He looks at up Mickey, and the implication is obvious.

_He isn’t afraid to kiss me… unlike you._

That sounds like a fucking dare to him.

When Mickey was younger, you could guarantee he’d been the one kid who never pussied out of a dare. Whether it was taunting the teacher or mooning cops or eating worms, you could count on Mickey Milkovich to have the guts to do it. The other kids thought he was crazy. But it earned him their respect. That was how you showed them – by being tougher and braver and kicking the shit out of anyone who messed with you. That’s how you proved you weren’t just some dirty poor kid, with a junkie mom and a dad in jail and second-hand clothes so big that even the teachers laughed at you.

He’s grown out of dares, but seeing Gallagher looking at him like that is making that old urge start to prickle across his skin: that need to prove himself, to show everyone that he isn’t scared. That they’re the ones who don't mean shit, and Mickey is just as good as they are.

Gallagher thinks he’s afraid? He’ll fucking show him.

*

Thoughts of Gallagher and kissing and dares hover at the edges of his mind all day, but it’s not until much later, about three in the morning, that he really lets himself get caught up in the idea. At this time, the whole house is quiet and his room is full of that weird orange glow that streetlamps give off. It isn’t pretty or anything, but Mickey likes it: it makes him feel calm and sort of at peace with the world. And it matches the glow of his joint, which might have something to do with the zen feeling he’s got going on right now.

Inadvertently, as he exhales and watches the smoke swirl in the nighttime glow, he finds his thoughts wandering to Gallagher again. Maybe it’s got something to do with the orange light tinting his room, but he finds that when it's late at night like this, he thinks about the other boy a lot. And not just the feeling of Gallagher’s thick cock sliding into him, although that does occupy his thoughts a lot of the time too, but weird stuff that has no real business being in his brain. Like how strong and broad Gallagher’s shoulders have suddenly become. And the way he laughs. And the way he gets a little dimple on one side of his face when he does that half-smile thing.

Right now he’s thinking about kissing that stupid smile.

He could do it. Just go for it. Gallagher would probably lap that shit up – he’s a sucker for dramatic gestures. And it’s just a kiss. Not like it’s a big deal.

It’s just that…

It kind of is a big deal for Mickey. He’d slice off his own balls before he’d ever admit it to anyone, but… he’s never _actually_ kissed another person. His mom used to kiss him, sometimes, when he was little and she was tweaked out of her mind. Then she’d grab his face and smother him with kisses that tasted of the crack pipe, smooshing his cheeks and ruffling his hair. He used to wipe his mouth off when she did it, acting as though he hated it. He used to wish she’d do it more often.

But then she died. And ever since, he hasn’t been kissed by anyone.

Of course it’s not like he’s a virgin. Clearly. He’s been having sex since he was thirteen. But it’s never been the romantic, ‘let’s make out on the couch before going all the way for the first time’ kind of sex. It’s always been more of an ‘in-and-out, thanks, close the fucking door when you leave’ type thing. Kissing never factored much into it. So whilst his inexperience kind of embarrasses him – he’d sure as hell never tell his brothers – really he finds the thought of kissing someone – anyone – well, kind of _gay_. Kissing is for cheesy old movies and high school sweethearts. Not dudes.

It hasn’t bothered him all that much. More than anything, it’s not like there’s ever really been anyone he wants to kiss.

But…

Fucking Ian Gallagher, man. He takes a shuddering pull of the joint, feeling the acrid smoke fill his lungs. That stupid, infuriating ginger. It pisses him off, that Gallagher has got him thinking so much about this.

He likes Gallagher, sure. Likes being around him. He definitely likes fucking him. And yes, sometimes when they’ve been alone together – usually when the sweat is drying on their skin and he’s still got the taste of Gallagher’s cock in his mouth – Mickey’s wondered what it might be like to grab the younger boy and just go for it. Like, kiss him.

He doesn’t, obviously. It’d be crossing a line that’s been firmly drawn: it’s sex, nothing else. Gallagher was going to kiss him once, the first time; when he broke into Mickey’s room with a tyre iron, and they fought and then suddenly they were tearing off each other’s clothes and Mickey ended up getting pounded into the mattress by the skinny punk he’d wanted to kill just a couple of weeks previously. But like hell Mickey was going to be making out with him: he might have had the kid’s dick up his ass, but kissing is a whole different game. That’s not what their… whatever this is, is all about. They fuck. That’s it. Sometimes they hang out and drink beer and smoke but it’s just a precursor to fucking, or time killed until they’re both ready to go for another round. Kissing is something else – it means more. It’s like saying; this matters to me more than just sex.

Him and Gallagher don’t kiss. Since that first time it’s never been an issue.

So he doesn’t understand why it’s an issue _now_. All he knows is that he wants to wipe that fucking look off Gallagher’s face – wants to prove to the other boy that he’s not a coward, because he damn well isn’t. And if he has to kiss him to prove that, then fine. Whatever. He can do that.

Mind made up, he drops the stub of the joint into the coffee cup next to his bed and turns over.

It’s a long time before he drifts off to sleep though.

*

The next day is the day that they’re doing this heist, as Gallagher refers to it. That earns him a slap round the back of the head from Mickey, who tells him not to be such a fucking dork, this isn’t _Oceans Eleven_.

His cousin Ivan has borrowed a van from somewhere, and he lounges in the back with Donny, Ivan riding shotgun and Gallagher driving even though Mickey knows he hasn’t got a licence. They chat about boring shit on the drive over, which Mickey appreciates. It keeps his mind off the weird thoughts he had the night before.

Also, it stops him staring too long at Gallagher’s mouth.

The house in question looks like something he saw on an episode of _Cribs_ one time. Jesus Christ, this guy really is loaded, Mickey thinks, kind of amazed that something like this exists just a fifteen minute drive from their shithole part of town.

He still wouldn’t fuck him though, even if he does have a sweet house.

So they clamber out the van, quietly, not wanting any neighbours paying too much attention because realistically, who would believe that these dirty kids with their beat up van were actually movers? Gallagher volunteers to hang back to keep watch, and Mickey heads inside to help liberate Grandpa’s expensive toys from his mansion. It’s the kind of thing he loves; he’s a Milkovich after all. They live for this shit.

But all Mickey’s brain can focus on is what Gallagher said the day before.

_He isn’t afraid to kiss me._

Halfway up the path, he snaps. _Fuck it_. He doesn’t let himself think about it. If he thinks, then he won’t be able to go through with it. As soon as his cousins are through the door, he lets impulse take over, mumbles a ‘ _forgot something, be right back_ ’, then legs it back out, not allowing himself to consider what he’s doing; what it might mean. He jumps back into the van, and before he can let his mind catch up with whatever it is his body is playing at and start screaming in protest, he dips his head and kisses Gallagher.

He feels Ian’s lips part in shock; there’s the taste of smoke from the cigarette the other boy had just lit, and the tiniest hint of wetness where their mouths are ever so slightly open against one another. He’s got his eyes closed, but he’s acutely aware of the positioning of their bodies; his hand gripping the back of the driver’s seat, the way his head is tilted but Gallagher’s is upright, the brush of his nose against a pale freckled cheek.

 _So this is what a kiss is like_ , he thinks.

It feels…like it thought it would, honestly. Lips on lips, Gallagher’s breathing coming rapidly through his nose. It’s a pretty standard kiss.

But there’s something else there. Something that goes beyond the physical; something that he’s feeling but it’s not got anything to do with the sensation of Gallagher’s lips or tongue or skin. It’s just _him_ – Ian Gallagher – who’s setting off something inside Mickey that he can’t begin to understand. Kissing him feels every bit like he thought it would on the outside, but on the inside it’s sparking things that he’s never known before, like embers suddenly whooshing into life. Things that have been smoldering for a while now, but Mickey just ignored them and shoved them down. But now they can’t be ignored, not when they’re coming alive like they’re doing right here, right now, in this fucking van with Ian fucking Gallagher’s mouth pressed against his own.

And then that’s it. It’s over.

He hops out the van as quick as he jumped in, and sprints back to the house.

As he runs, he turns back briefly to flip Gallagher off – just as a way of saying _fuck you, I won, there’s no dare that Mickey Milkovich won’t take_ – and he catches the look on the other boy’s face. Like he’s amazed and elated and hopeful and disbelieving all at once.

Gallagher’s looking at him in a way that makes his stomach twist, and he feels that thing inside him glow even hotter, because the expression on Gallagher’s face looks exactly like whatever it is that’s happening inside Mickey feels like.

 _Jesus_.

Whatever it is, he can’t stop it. Not now.

What the hell is happening to him? He feels like his hold on the world is slipping, and he’s being dragged slowly but surely towards Ian Gallagher. Everything he thought he knew and understood about himself is shifting beneath his feet, and it has been for a while now, he realises, but it’s too late to do anything about it. Not after what he just did.

And the worst – or is it the best? – part is, he finds he doesn’t care all that much.

Fucking Gallagher, man. 


End file.
